Goodbye to all that.
I felt fine this morning (rested, even), and wished I'd had a video camera running when Rob brought Westley into the bedroom. Westley was practically luminous with delight at seeing me, and proceeded to point out my facial features and name them--eyes, eyebrows, nose, mouth--before cuddling up to my breast. But shortly afterwards, there was coffee, diapers, Sesame Street, Brio-building, a trip to the fruit market, and the realization that this was the routine and I was back in it. I started to feel deflated, depressed, fatigued.
I was hoping I'd return from my vacation feeling refreshed and ready to dive back into the Mommy thing head-first. Instead, I'm mildly sunburned, very itchy (from two kinds of bug bites), and exhausted. I keep whining inside my head. I don't want to wash diaper covers. I don't want to plan meals for the week. I want to drink a glass of wine at 2 PM and talk over hours of non-consecutive episodes of Grey's Anatomy. I'm actually starting to annoy myself.
Yes, I wore sunscreen. I even reapplied.
I'm giving myself today to mourn the end of the party atmosphere. I get to spend the next 10 or so hours missing my girlfriends and the beach house and the late-night discussions of home renovations and changing careers and post-feminism. And then I'm kicking my miserable ass and getting proactive. There's no teleportation yet, so I can't beam myself to the three other corners of the country for Wednesday coffee dates or Sunday dinners. But I'm setting up phone dates and sending more e-mails and collecting current mailing addresses.
Because once every two years is not nearly enough.
Vacation reflections and highlights still to come, when I feel more rested and when I've had a chance to sort through I don't know how many photos. But first? Unpacking.